In a couple of days, it’ll be my birthday. I’ll be turning an age that isn’t one of the better ones and, to be completely honest, it’s making me a little depressed. I really don’t even like to say the number out loud.
Of course I’ve been telling myself to just get over it. “Stop being such a baby! You have a great life!” I say. And that’s true, I do have a great life. But still, when I think about the number I’ll soon be, it stuns me. Because I don’t feel like that number. Or think like that number. Or look like that number. (Well, certain parts of me do, but the State of Texas has asked me to keep them covered up for public safety reasons.) And certainly, in my ratty t-shirt and green flip flops from the Exxon station, I don’t dress like that number. It just doesn’t make sense that I’m this old.
When I told a few friends that I was feeling blue about my birthday, they said, “Well, it’s better than the alternative!” Seriously? That’s supposed to make me feel better? The fact that my new age is better than DEATH? “Yay, I’m not cremated! Pass me some cake because I won’t have to squeeze myself into one of those unforgiving coffins this year, brother!” I mean, you’d think they could try a little harder when I’m entering my dotage. Let’s make my Golden Years happy ones, okay?
But despite not really feeling my age, I will admit I’ve recently noticed a few things that tell me I’m definitely not in my 20’s anymore. Such as:
— An impossible to pluck gray eyebrow hair that has the thickness of a violin string and the resilience of a cockroach. Nickname: “The Silver Rambo.”
— An email from my wild friend from high school that wasn’t about a big, drunken party, but rather a show on PBS she thinks I’d enjoy. (I emailed her back and told her I already set a DVR timer for it and has she seen their lovely new tote bags? Pledge drive time ROCKS!!)
— An assault on my ears every time I turn on the car radio. Is that shit what they’re calling music these days? Does it have to be so damn thumpy? Who is this “Pitbull” character? And why are all the songs about dance floors? Who the hell cares about dance floors? Did Wham! ever sing about dance floors?* No, they did not and that’s why George Michael needs to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame before that tone-deaf street person Ke$ha. Seriously, does she even bathe?
— And finally, an eye doctor who thought it was funny to say, “I think you’re going to need bi-focals soon, Granny!” at my last exam. (And that was my last exam—with that jackass. Like I need that shit when I’m dilated and tired from reading 50 stupid eye charts.)
Of course, one good thing about being my age is that when I’m invited to an 80’s Halloween party, I can just grab a few things from my closet:
(I know, I look totally radical. But unfortunately, I lost Best Costume to White MC Hammer.)
So how can I cheer myself up about my age? A few ideas come to mind, but most of them involve needles, injections and the word “swollen.” And I don’t think I’m ready to look like an Olsen Twin quite yet. (Also, why does the media show plastic surgery disaster stories, then remind us to always go to a “licensed plastic surgeon”? Do they really think the people stupid enough to get $29.99 Lipo in the back of a Detroit doughnut shop care about licenses?)
Other ways that might make me feel young include hanging out at the Elks Club, attending the Silver Sneakers stretching class at the gym and joining the local Daughters of the American Revolution chapter. But I don’t know. That all seems a little desperate, don’t you think? Besides, the DAR chapter already rejected my application because I thought Patrick Henry was the star of Dirty Dancing. Crazy old bats.
But you know what? At this point in my life, I’m happy, I’m healthy and I have at least 50 more years to live if I cut down on my daily Kit Kat/chardonnay consumption. So I guess all that’s left for me to do is to just realize that this is how life works. Yep, I need to just embrace my age, accept my new number and get the hell over it.
Hi, I’m Wendi. And on Thursday, November 17th, I’ll be 44 years old.
BOOYAH.
*Update: Per my friend Peajaye, in the comments below, George Michael actually did sing about dance floors in “Careless Whisper.” But he did it in such a cool, subtle way that I didn’t even remember. Damn it—I hate being wrong about Wham!
Happy Birthday!!
44 is great we look better (becuase we now have terrible eyesight!)and we know more because we realize that everything we do is wrong!!
Love ya!
I have been hanging out with YY we miss you!
Make a trip to the frozen north soon!
I thought you were giving me a birthday greeting when I read the subject line.
I just turned 52 on Sunday youngun . For me it is the grey chin hairs as if chins that need waxing aren’t enough. Oh well, thanks to hair dye and great skin from my genetics only my friends know I am 52, most otherwise peg me at about 40.
I was going to go the funny, witty response route…which I always fail at so I decided to take a different tact. Most importantly, Happy Birthday. There are days when I feel no one understands me but you. You crack me up when I start to take things waaaay to seriously. I think you are an amazing writer. I hope you have at it for another 44. I hope I am alive to read it. Now come with me to see Breaking Dawn at midnight (YES I am admitting to it)…NOTHING says old fart like being in a room full of twi-hards. But hey, I can order a beer and they can’t! Suckas!
I will deny being in my 40’s until I am in my 60’s. As for realizing you are old, it happened to me when I took my stepdaughter to Abercrombie and Fitch. Looked around and said, “Why the hell is it so loud in here? And good god, what is that terrible perfume smell in here, it’s giving me a headache.” And that’s when I realized I had turned into my Mother, who used to refuse to even enter the store.
First of all, Sbarbarella? I was going to see BD at midnight but an invitation to a “pleasure party” trumped it. Ya’ll know what those are, ya? And I am always the oldest at these shindigs and the drunkest and the one who can best advice whether you need the triple rabbit ear tool or the simple but highly effective mini-pearl tool.
See? Not bad for this old woman who is turning FORTY-SIX on 12/26.
And Wendi? I about cried when I saw my 1st gray pub hair. That doesn’t seem right at all. If you can stay as fucking hilarious as you are now, you’ve got it made for another 50 at least. Happy young at heart 44!
oh my gosh, i thought you were at least gonna be 50, the way you were talking! now that i’ve read every single one of your comments (as well as your as-usual-hilarious column), i am definitely the oldest of your readers thus far. 56. screw it. i look good, feel great, honey thinks i’m fabulous, kids love me, and … longevity runs in my family, so if i start whinging now, i only have a lot of complaining to look forward to!
you DO look terrific, and your have talent, gifts, respect, love, and (your words) “a great life” — sorry for preaching to ya, but believe me, it really does just get better. go, girl!!!
Totally agree about Wham. Hello? Have you heard “Careless Whisper” lately?
well you know what they say – any day on the right side of the grass is a good one 🙂
Happy 65th!
Here’s the good news: We’re going to take your pain straight to the BANK. BOOYAH!!
A very happy birthday to you, Wendi!!
44…That’s the age where all the big pimpin stuff happens. I see a glimmer of doubt in your eye. Meet me in Vegas and we’ll test it out.
I’m sending you some ointment for your birthday gift. And a drool cup etched with “#1 Fanilow (who isn’t dead yet.)”
I used to be one of those people who would laugh at the old folks who moaned about being in their forties.
Of course that was before I turned 42.5 (got young kids here, halves are important) and now I say that 44 is the perfect age.
Ah, Wendi. Dear sweet youth-ful Wendi, when you turn 48 like my all-gray-eyebrowed self, you will thank me for this phrase: it only gets better. Really. Well, except for the bifocal contact lenses thing that I wrote about recently. That sucks. But everything else gets better. Oh, except for the menopausal weight gain, that sucks too. And my daughter crying “But you’re almost 50 and people die when they’re 50.” Okay, I’m stopping now.
Congrats on your Parents Mag award!
Happy Birthday, Wendi! Just keep drinking the diet coke. My theory is that we will be well preserved or die early from the rat poison. Nice to know I wasn’t the only one with a big, fat crush on George Michael. Wish I still had my Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go t-shirt I would wear with MY orange leg warmers and matching neon earrings.
Happy birthday you fabulous, gorgeous, hilarious girl! Xo
Happy bday to you! You actually look divine. For your possible amusement, here goes: I am a few months or so older than you and recently, during an ER visit, a MALE nurse asked me if I “STILL” menstruated. Luckily, my Dad was with me or the nurse would have been the recipient of a good ol’ fashioned b kicking. Cheers!
Happy Birthday! I demand a recount, cannot believe those leg warmers lost to parachute pants!
Happy Birthday. We truly need an ‘old bloggers club’ for us in the geriatric crowd. Marinka can be our leader.
It’s so true.
Guilty feet really do have no rhythm.
Nevertheless, on the occasion of your 44th birthday, I hope you dance.
(Oh crap. That’s a country-western song, isn’t it? Or did Pitbull write those words?)
Either way, I’m 43 and right behind you.
So cheers to getting older and not being cremated. Because I suppose those are our ONLY alternatives, right?
Pass the cake.
Happy Birthday, my funny friend! I hate to blow your cover, but didn’t I see you wearing that “costume” the other day at Jazzercise?
Happy Birthday Wendi!
Have a happy birthday. At least you’re not 45, right?
Hey!
Happy Birthday – it’s my birthday too – I also was feeling a bit ‘ehhh’ about the hole thing.
Thanks for sharing your perspective and wit, it was a nice present for a stranger!
Happy Birthday!
Hope you had a good one Wendi! You definitely don’t look 44. I think Oprah or someone equally important (not that I can think of a person in that category) said that 50 is the new 30, so I guess you’re really just in your early 20s. Are you sure you can’t relate to Pitbull and Ke$ha?
Happy belated!
I hate those ‘better than death’ pep talks. Just let me whine and then tell me I’m skinny and pay for my half of lunch.
You look damn good, Wendi. You really do.
Now go get Silver Rambo threaded.
I know you probably don’t have time to read all these posts, but I just had to say that you outdid yourself with this post. It is hilarious. I know I’m getting old because I stand in the frontyard and yell at the teenagers (AKA “those young whippersnappers”) to SLOW DOWN as they race by in their shiney new cars.
Happy birthday! I hope you had a great day!
And I totally don’t get that Ke$ha.
One more thing – don’t do the injection thing. I’ve met you a couple of times, and I think you look amazing. In fact, I’m pretty sure that 44 is a typo.
Oh dear God. You are a mere baby. Stop whining. I AM OLD. 44 is still young and hot. At least you’ve forgotten details about WHam, I’ve forgotten details about…The Ramones and…Bad Company.
I’m 44 and I think it is a fine age. Last Christmas is on my Christmas play list my kids get to listen to on holiday trips.
When I was 39 and pregnant with our 3rd kid I got a look at my chart at Kaiser Permanente’s OB office. I kid you not, I was categorized as “Elderly Multigravid” which loosely translates to old lady having too many babies.
p.s. happy birthday!
Girl, where have you been?
Haven’t you heard about the transsexual transgendered transvestite “plastic surgeon” who was injecting cement and used motor oil into, well, both sets of cheeks for the outrageously low price of $35 per cheek?
You should get yourself some of that!!
I may have been a little off in my facts, but I did not make the previous paragraph up. Go ahead. Google cement injections.
I’m a little late to the party, but happy birthday anyway.
My birthday is Nov 10th. I just turned 48. I’m feeling pretty good. So good, that sometimes I actually have to think about my age when someone asks me.
Must be all the “humor” blogs that I read.
Thanks for the shot in the arm!
this is the funiest bellly laughing thing
I have ever read…and I say go girl>>
I cannot wait to read your Happy B.Day words
the day you celebrate your 83rd B.day like me
I shall be expecting you to be tap dancing with high kicks, surf fishing, playing socks and shoes, mexican train, entertaining in the bars with insinuating but lady like remarks. You enjoy every beautiful day you
have been granted by your loving God.